without you breathing through its trees
by possibilist
Summary: 'Your parents don't believe in luck, or, at least that's what they tell you. They believe in God. They believe in Jesus. Sometimes, they get mad at you for trying to wish on Shakespearean shooting stars or the discarded feathers of your eyelashes, even the sweet smoke of birthday candles. They tell you to pray; they tell you wishes don't come true.' Faberry drabble.


summary: 'Your parents don't believe in luck, or, at least that's what they tell you. They believe in God. They believe in _Jesus_. Sometimes, they get mad at you for trying to wish on Shakespearean shooting stars or the discarded feathers of your eyelashes, even the sweet smoke of birthday candles. They tell you to pray; they tell you _wishes_ don't come true.' Faberry drabble.

an (1): i hope this finds you all well. x

an (2): title from mumford and sons' 'hold on to what you believe.' gorgeous.

...

(this land means less and less to me) without you breathing through its trees

.

(_but we're young, open flowers in the windy fields of this war-torn world_.)

...

You break your arm when you're seven years old; playing in the rain, you slip while bouncing from one puddle to the next.

It hurts, very much so, and you almost throw up when you see the lump in your arm that signals the disconnect between your very bones, the bridges of marrow and vessels that have come apart unexpectedly.

You cry.

Your mother takes you to get an X-ray immediately, although you know.

(How do people not know? you wonder. How can people not sense when part of themselves has been fractured, when they have broken? You grasp, loosely, that you could have maybe ignored it, at least for a little while, but you would have been aware of it—just as you're aware of your father's yelling and your sister's defiance; just as you're aware of the warm, sour smell of your mother's breath. You're seven but you're _smart_, and you spend your time paying attention.)

You get a pink cast.

No one signs it at home.

No one signs it at church.

No one signs it when you go to school the next day.

You find a permanent marker and sign _Peter_, then you sign _Alice_, then you sign _Harry_. Lastly, if only to remind yourself that you have, indeed, triumphed somewhere, you sign _Lucy_.

.

Your parents don't believe in luck, or, at least that's what they tell you. They believe in God. They believe in _Jesus_. Sometimes, they get mad at you for trying to wish on Shakespearean shooting stars or the discarded feathers of your eyelashes, even the sweet smoke of birthday candles. They tell you to pray; they tell you _wishes_ don't come true.

For a long while, you don't listen to them. You are yourself imbued with an old magic only the loneliest of children possess; you _see _worlds so much better than your own. But gradually you come to think of stories as stories, because the Bible, according to your parents, is the only _true _true book that exists; you believe in bad luck and you learn incredible pain. You inhabit a quiet, heavy, breathtaking, beautiful ache. You break with dignity; you dismantle your pieces like classic Hollywood starlets—gracefully, with glamour that distracts _during_, that makes the end that much more tragic and _American_—(you sometimes see so much of yourself in Marilyn). You carve out all of this empty space. You destroy cities inside your chest, light them on fire and watch them burn to the ground; you give birth to caves inside of your stomach. Behind your eyes, you claw through plaster walls encompassing a precious house; you expel them through your (new) nose. You allow the volcanoes of your spine to erupt again and again, and lava flows cool and form land masses so severe, so beautiful and sharp: islands.

You shout "Howl" when no one is home. You listen to old Patti Smith records you find (_Jesus died for somebody's sins, but not mine)_.

You become, you learn later, when you go to Yale and before (and after) you fall in love, a deconstructionist—a learned behaviour; a response to trauma and war in a materialist society set on power and wealth.

You are not a shell, though, but rather a mess of haunted material, the world after the Big Bang but before it was inhabited—not so much haunted by the wishes that never came true, but more so by the ones you never made.

You are broken.

But, "We're made of star stuff," she tells you.

But, "You are quite the beauty," she says.

But, "I won't hurt you. Ever," she whispers into your collarbone.

You feel a cement mixer rumbling inside your chest; iron reinforcements—your ribs have healed—are laid in the foundation.

(You're a postmodernist, absolutely, but _maybe we have to break everything to make something better out of ourselves_, you think.)

She takes her right index finger and presses it to the soft skin and hard bone, where freckles just barely dart, beneath your eye, pulls it back and comes away with a tiny blond eyelash.

"Make a wish," Rachel says.

.

You're on morphine, but only a little, so you don't tell her to leave because it hurts and you've found that, even when she (logically) doesn't, she makes the pain lessen.

"You really don't have to stay for this," you say, slowly (_slowly_) moving from your comfortable lying-down position in bed to sit up. You steel yourself against the bed with your hands and swallow once, and when you open your eyes Rachel stares at you with concern.

You open your mouth to say something—your lungs are burning, though—and she takes a steady breath and hands you a sweater, helps you slowly put it on, making sure you don't snag the IV in your hand or the ring on your finger.

"I missed all the other physical therapy sessions you ever had," she says, tilting her head with a little smile as she straightens your collar. "Which is a shame."

"I really didn't need motivational music."

She laughs. "You're cute when you're grumpy."

"I'm in _pain_."

She kisses your forehead gently. "You're still cute. And it's a nice change of pace, helping you _into_ clothes."

"Don't get used to it," you say, swatting loosely, as your physical therapist knocks on the door.

An hour later, you've exhausted yourself and the new incision along your ribs feels like you've pulled a few stitches, and you're pretty sure Rachel has cheered herself hoarse (which you might like, for an hour or two of repose).

You sit down on the edge of your bed in mirrored time, steel yourself with your hands and swallow; Rachel brushes a gentle, gentle hand through your hair, pushes your bangs back.

"They're rebuilding me," you say into the soft underskin of her wrist.

She cradles the back of your head as you would an infant's to help you lie back. "They removed half of your lung, Quinn."

"That part of me was broken." Your eyelids are heavy.

Rachel predictably—what you've said has made her very, very sad, because she slumps, all the way down to the tips of her fingers—starts to hum, a song you played for her years ago.

"I'm rebuilding me," you say, and you take her hand and press it to your ribs, against the bandages and tiny leak of blood, against the ridges of your broken, wired bones and sweltering breath.

She smiles softly; her fingers shake.

You tell her, "_You're _rebuilding me."

.

You get home from one of your publisher's insisted occasional live-readings and book-signings one night when Emerson, your daughter, is five and Felix, your son, is two. It's past their bedtime, so you're quiet when put your keys into the little bowl on the small table by the front door, and you slip off your trench and drape it over your arm.

Rachel's home tonight with them—she's workshopping a new show, working erratic hours—and you listen for her voice as you walk past your perfect, warm (and messy with more than a few colourful toys) living room. You turn on the stove to warm up the tea kettle, then straighten a few of Emerson and Felix's prized fingerpaintings on the fridge, then smile at Emerson's perfect kindergarten report card (which, in reality, is really just saying that Emerson is well-behaved and 'extremely gifted'—they don't actually get _grades_).

When the water warms up, you make your tea (Earl Grey, with milk) and Rachel's (chamomile, with sugar) and make sure you're holding the handles securely, then walk down the hall.

Your back is sore from standing for hours before, and probably from having two children that constantly want you to pick them up, and you're starting to feel like you're probably going to have bronchitis or pneumonia soon; Rachel is concerned about your burgeoning cough.

The door to your room is open, and when you go inside to greet Rachel, kiss her, hand her a cup of tea, she's not there. You set down the mugs on your dresser and go to Emerson's room.

When you open the door—slowly, quietly—you stand at the threshold and just smile, because Rachel is lying in Emerson's bed, with your two children curled on either side of her. All of them are asleep, peacefully, and one of the 'special' books you've written—it's only for _them_—is facedown on Rachel's stomach.

After about a minute, you walk as quietly as you can—narrowly missing a stuffed octopus on the floor—and brush aside Rachel's hair. She stirs and then blinks sleepily up at you before glancing around and sitting up with a little laugh.

Felix doesn't wake up when you collect him in your arms, and Rachel climbs out of bed after, pulling Emerson's duvet neatly to her chin, then kisses her on the forehead.

You both walk to Felix's room and do the same thing.

"Hi," Rachel says when you get back to your room. She closes the door. She smiles. She kisses you. "How'd tonight go?"

"Well. Everyone loved the new piece."

"It's magic," she says.

You blush. "I made you tea," you tell her.

She glances over at the mugs.

"And I'm pretty sure you're right about me getting sick. My cough's worse."

Rachel frowns, and then kisses your forehead, puts a gentle, warm hand against the sweater covering the skin covering the bones covering the empty space where your broken lung used to be.

Your chest feels incredibly full.

She says, "I love you."

...

references.

the line in section ii is from chuck palahniuk's _fight club._


End file.
